Arrythmia
by Jason Layton
Summary: Sherlock is taken ill. Some additions, new chapter! Please help and review!
1. Chapter 1

The case had been difficult, and John's head still reeled from Holmes's amazing deductions. It was because of that, and the remains of the first victim still mostly spread over their dining table, that he'd insisted on walking to the local Chinese and eating in rather than ordering take away.

Holmes had been difficult; he usually was, whining about being tired, that he wasn't hungry that he didn't like going to restaurants, but John had persevered. He'd ordered a set banquet for 2, but Sherlock had refused to eat all but a small portion of beef in black bean sauce and egg fried rice, and that had only be to demonstrate that John was using his chopsticks wrongly.

Even by the standards of Sherlock Holmes, he was quiet tonight, paler than usual, but John knew his friend hadn't slept in 48 hours and wished he would just eat something, then go home and go to sleep. His preoccupation with Sherlock's sleep and the stifling quietness of their table had meant he drank too much. Much too much. In fact by the time they left the restaurant, John was distinctly merry, and Sherlock while still not speaking much had tried to convince John that a taxi was in order, he'd refused.

The night is beautiful Dr Watson had pronounced, we're young and free, lets walk these halcyon streets. So they had started out into the night. It had been painful process, Holmes was unusually tired and Johns erratic progress was making his head feel heavy and his legs uncomfortable. Finally he saw the dimmed lights of their flat, and started to feel his body relax. The heaviness got more pronounced, and then he felt himself falling sideways. He barreled into John, shoving him against the wall, he felt his friends arms tighten around him, and suddenly John wasn't so drunk.

Are you alright, Sherlock? Holmes can you hear me? Watson's voice was serious now, shaking him slightly. Holmes looked up into this friend's face, and was surprised to realize he was now sitting on the floor. He assured John that he was fine, just a little over tired, and when he stood up he was relieved to find the heaviness had left him entirely. They walked on to the flat, and up the stairs without further incident, but for the first time in living memory, Holmes said goodnight and when to bed the moment they walked through the door.

It was 3am when John woke suddenly, unsure what had woken him, he checked the time on his alarm clock, and stifling his breathing listened hard. He needn't have done less than a minute letter a loud chesty cough from the room next door shattered the night. It was a worrying cough, a flemmy cough, and John's mind wandered to the incident earlier in the evening. His friend had made himself ill with over work, and if he wasn't mistaken they were in for a full-blown chest infection.

John had gone back to sleep eventually, although Holmes's cough had continued abreast all night. The next morning however all seemed quiet, normally he would awake to find Sherlock in the living room, but as he passed his friend's door, he heard a distinctly wheezy snore. John had arranged to work at the clinic that morning, so against his best judgement, rather than leave Holmes sleeping he made him cereals with warm milk, and brought it into him. In the night Sherlock had kicked his covers off, and his naked body was beaded with sweat. John had a moment of discomfort before, putting down the bowl, and gently covering his friend with a blanket from the pile on the floor.

_Sherlock wake up, it's me John. _He shook him gently, and his friend blinked revealing bloodshot and unfocused eyes, _How are you feeling? _Not well, was the answer he received. Sitting on the side of the bed, he gently sat his friend up. _I want you to eat this, Sherlock; will you do that for me? _A nod and a shaky hand reached for the spoon. John sat by his friend while he ate slowly. John gently took the bowl away when it was clear Holmes could eat no more, and presented him with a glass of orange juice and some Paracetamol. Reassured that his friend had eaten something, and he had done all he could for now he left for work.

When he returned later in the day it was to a darkened flat he searched through the flat for any sign of Sherlock and finally found him slumped in the bathroom. Holmes had been sick, and had then fallen asleep beside the toilet. This was a terribly worrying sign, and as John woke his friend, and helped him back to bed he silently vowed to take him to the hospital in the morning if no improvement was seen. Sure Holmes had a severe chest infection, from the wheezy fluid hitches and John would have liked a chest X-ray. He decided to sleep in the chair in his friend's room though, just for the night to watch over him.

It was a very uncomfortable chair, and John slept as fitfully as his coughing wheezing charge. The night had just turned to dawn when Dr Watson realized there was something terribly wrong, in the ghostly half light, he could make out his friends face, the eyes wide and fearful, sweat beading the forehead, the skin waxy. He rushed over, and for the first time since he'd fallen ill tried to take a pulse, it was barely existent.

_John? I don't feel well _this much was clear, John grabbed his phone and called 999.

While they waited for the ambulance, Sherlock listened to the sounds of John slamming clothes into his black holdall. He was vaguely aware of a strange whooshing sound in his ears, but mostly the pain was constricting thought. He could no longer cough, and felt like the fluid which had been building up in his lungs was drowning him as he lay, he couldn't move, and where his head and felt heavy for days, it now took on a feeling of unreality. Am I dead? He thought, John suddenly sounded odd, as he chatted away to him, almost like Holmes was under water and John calling him from shore.

Holmes arrested in the ambulance; John cursed himself why hadn't he seen the signs, as the paramedics fought to and finally succeeded in accomplishing sinus rhythm. He was to young for this, but then Holmes life was stressful, he took no care of himself whatsoever, and never slept.

He was admitted and a cardiologist called, John was stuck in the difficult position of a doctor when family is admitted. He had nothing to do, he sat, he stood, he drank terrible coffee, he rang Lestraad, and then he rang Mycroft. A sleepy Mycroft like an ill Sherlock was an odd experience for John. He had assumed his friend's seemingly omnipotent brother would have already known about Sherlock's admittance, and had been phoning just for something to do. Instead he found a genuinely worried and concerned older brother, who assured John he was on his way immediately.

When Mycroft arrived he started interrogating John. Had Sherlock been using again, was he going to die, will he need long term medication? Dr Watson put his head in his hands, _Cardiac Arrhythmia, caused by stress and poor personal care. Genetic history of Coronary Heart Disease, and of course scar tissue on the heart due to excessive abuse of recreational drugs. I just don't know! _He started weeping gently, and as he sat there willing his best friend to return from brink of death, a gentle arm was placed around him.

_Even if you told him that John, it wouldn't stop Sherlock for one moment….._


	2. Chapter 2

Somewhere possibly in another country someone was talking. It sounded to Sherlock like the speaker was holding a conversation with himself, there would be a question, long and involved then a few seconds later an answer. He started trying to concentrate on that sound, because strangely the only other thing he could concentrate on was the hollow pain in his chest. He supposed that he was underwater, the noise of the speaker was so far away, and Sherlock's chest and lungs burned, so he assumed he was holding his breath underwater while someone held a schizophrenic conversation above his head. Holmes tried to swim towards the noise, but soon discovered he wasn't in water at all, but thick custard, which stopped his legs and arms moving. He also discovered he couldn't open his eyes, never normally a problem while underwater, but might feasibly be a problem when drowning in custard. He tried an experimental breath, maybe he could in fact breath custard, and it wouldn't be too bad. He had expecting to inhale a pleasant vanilla aroma, but when he allowed his lungs to fill, a horrible chemical smell reached the back of his tongue instead. He immediately gagged, and was terrified to feel a hard solid object forced into throat. He suddenly fought harder through the custard, the schizophrenic had stopped talking, and in a haze of pain and fear he could hear alarms, and happily the one sound he was desperate to hear. His friend Dr Watson, calling his name.

John had sat by Sherlock's bed for two days, he had moved when Mycroft arranged for his transfer to a private hospital, but immediately settled back in his guardian position as soon as his friend was settled. When he had started buying the trash magazines he couldn't now remember, the first few hours he must have picked up an abandoned weekly rag, and since then had been reading them in the attitude of a chain smoker. He had about 50 by his feet, and had religiously read every article to the prone detective. He had been reading the problem page of a particularly sex obsessed specimen when Sherlock had started fighting against his tracheal tube. It might have taken another two hours for him to regain consciousness, but after immediately phoning Mycroft, John had stayed talking to his friend, drawing him out of his enclosed world, and trying to bring him back to the land of the living.

The pretty blond nurse fancied Mycroft, his eyes half closed, John mumbling above him, and his chest on fire, Sherlock could see her staring at his brother back. He didn't know why Mycroft had his back to him, he wondered if he was ashamed. Then he started focussing on his brother, he was upset, Mycroft couldn't look at him because he was upset, and hadn't want John to see. Well that was a turn up. He wondered what he'd miss while unconscious, had John briefly left to let Mycroft poor out his soul, he would have been sorry to miss that. He knew his older brother, took his responsibility to him seriously, 7 years older and guilty about every aspect of Sherlock's bohemian lifestyle, but this bedside silent sobbing was something altogether new. If John would just let go of one of Sherlock's hands he could try and push himself up. They had taken out the tubes and he was breathing more himself, he thought if he could push himself up, mock Mycroft and scoff at John he really would be feeling more himself.

John was still talking to Sherlock, willing him to wake up properly. He vaguely wondered how long Sherlock would draw this out, whether in fact he was only pretending to be incapacitated to listen to what John, or embarrassingly about an hour previously Mycroft might say next. They had some conversation after Mycroft had arrived, mostly about the journey from central London, Mrs Hudson's fussing when Mycroft had gone to inform her of Sherlock's improvement, and of course Anthea's name of the day, Kayleigh. Then John had sat dumbfounded as his friends brother poured a tirade of self-abuse towards his incapacitated brother, then stood in the corner of the room in self-imposed disgrace. Suddenly he thought what to say the perfect thing.

Sherlock, Lestraad has a case for you

His friend's eyes shot open with a look of eager excitement.


End file.
